CHAPTER TWENTY.
A VOICE IN THE DARK.
All Paris seemed up that morning, hurrying to the scene of the day's wonder.

There was a rumour of fighting in the streets, of guns being pointed against the sacred doors of the Convention, of tyrants fallen and heads to fall.

To Paris, sick of blood and strained by terror, it seemed like the end of all things, and the people with one accord rushed eastward to witness the dawn of their new revolution.
I, who had had enough of revolutions, wandered disconsolately westward along the river-bank till the rush was over and the sounds behind me grew faint in the distance.

Where next?
I asked myself.

Whether Citizen Robespierre fell or not, there was not much quarter to be hoped for by a runaway from the Conciergerie.